Originally published at Scott Edelman. Please leave any comments there.
I don’t know what’s up with my subconscious, but it’s been delivering fewer dreams to me lately, which means I don’t get to share as many of them as I used to on Twitter each morning. The days of 5-7 dreams per night seem to be gone—and I want them back!
Until they dwindle down to nothing, though, I plan to continue collecting each month’s dreams here to see whether they gain additional meaning when rubbing up against each other.
And so … last month, I dreamt of Willie Nelson, Stephen King, David Letterman, Boyd Crowder, and more.
I dreamt that to get home, I needed to pass along the Coney Island boardwalk. I felt happy, enjoying the food smells and the sun on my face.
I dreamt I was in a Worldcon crowd when our phones all went off at once, the screens filled with glowing green infinity symbols. But — why?
I dreamt @BrianKeene and I collaborated on a political TV ad — but now that I’m awake, I no longer rememeber the candidate or issue!
I dreamt Willie Nelson came into my hotel room, spotted my ukulele, and suggested we head downstairs for a duet. We sang “I’ll Fly Away.”
I dreamt I judged a TV show on which @StephenKing had to recreate a famous chef’s fried chicken recipe. Alas, I woke before I got a taste!
I dreamt I was buying seven pounds of jelly beans for my father (deceased in real life) and trying to decide which flavors I should buy him.
I dreamt that — for a reason I can no longer remember — I was burning all of my possessions, feeding them slowly one by one into the fire.
I dreamt I was at the funeral of someone I met when I first got into comics fandom, and let someone else who knew him better do the eulogy.
I dreamt I’d volunteered for a one-way mission to Mars, but as soon as I was on board, kept trying to figure out: How do I get out of this?
I dreamt I showed around the cover proof for my new novel from Tor, which is odd, because I have no upcoming novel, nor plans to write one.
I dream one of my oldest friends and I were bumbling police detectives, the kind who only keep their jobs on sitcoms. We had misadventures.
I dreamt I was having a long conversation with David Letterman — about bagels. And my memories of eating them Sunday mornings in Brooklyn.
I dreamt I asked: “They call me the Anthony @Bourdain of science fiction. Did anyone ever call you the Scott Edelman of foodies?” Then woke.
I dreamt friends came over to help clean up, but instead made a mess, knocking over every bookcase like something out of Laurel and Hardy.
I dreamt I was part of a group fighting a horde of zombies, when suddenly, one of the undead turned to us and began to SPEAK. A new species?
I dreamt Boyd Crowder was my brother, and as we parted he slipped me a note which said we’d never see each other again — he would soon die.
I dreamt I showed up at San Diego Comic-Con only to realize I’d left my badge back at the hotel miles away, and so had to trudge back there.
I dreamt I was the son of Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi. He was angry with me, and chased me round the kitchen. But I woke before he caught me!